


Unto Certain Poor Shepherds

by Tseecka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An angel's gift at Christmas; to humanity, whom he already loves, and the human he's learning to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unto Certain Poor Shepherds

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that occurred to me (actually, an amalgamation of ideas that occurred to me at various times and all worked themselves into one long-ass oneshot) while listening to Christmas carols on the radio.

It's the third time in as many towns that Dean's found Castiel sitting on a park bench, his eyes locked on the playgrounds and the swings and his shoulders heaped with fresh-fallen snow. Its like he's a statue, like he hasn't moved a single inch in hours or maybe days. Those heavy eyes--laden with guilt, and shame, and fear and all other host of emotions Dean's not even sure the angel can feel--and heavy shoulders, motionless as a stone. He's surprised there haven't been a host of calls by concerned mothers about the creepy unshaven man in the trenchcoat watching their children.   
  
He sits next to the angel on the bench, brushing the snow away aimlessly with a leather glove and not really worrying about getting any on the still, silent figure--he's got enough snow piled over him already, Dean doubts he minds. Not even sure he notices, to tell the truth. But he sits, and the wood is as cold as frozen leather and he can already feel his skin prickling into goosebumps under his jacket sleeves.   
  
They sit in silence, Castiel still watching the playground--its like he hasn't even noticed Dean, and maybe he hasn't--and Dean steadfastly looking anywhere but at the kids bundled up in brightly colored snowpants and downy jackets, throwing snowballs and making snow angels. It's heavy, muffled silence, like after the first deep snowfall when you're the first person in the open field and there's a canvas of freshly fallen powder waiting for your footsteps, like the heavy crunching of car tires on snow that has just started to pack, but comforting, all the same. Familiar. And as usual, Dean can't stand it for too long, and opens his mouth to tell Castiel that they've missed the Horseman, again, but Sammy's got a lead in Detroit of all places and they're shipping out, and does he want to ride in the backseat since flying drains his energy so badly these days? But Castiel speaks first.   
  
"We have to stay here." A frosty-cold voice to match his eyes, eyes that stare at a young boy sitting alone on a playground swing and brushing his feet back and forth through the furrowed snow beneath it. Dean glances from Cas to the boy, and back again, and narrows his eyes to an expression as cold as Castiel's voice and the plywood he's now starting to freeze to. But he does a double-take, because as cold as the angel's voice is, his expression is warm, warm and fierce and full of something Dean hasn't seen for a long time--purpose.   
  
He puts his hand into his pocket, feeling for the bit of string and wood that's been tucked in there for weeks now, cold as ice to the touch. Not God, then--but there's a fervour in Castiel's eyes that is, frankly, refreshing to see. Like the look he saw there shoved against a wall with a hand over his mouth and escape, rescue, salvation at hand. A look that sends shivers down his spine that have nothing to do with the cold.   
  
"The kid, Cas?" he asks, confused now, his voice still harsh from the cold and the terse weight behind his question. The angel nods, and Dean lets out a whoosh of breath, hanging in the air before his lips. "What, he's a demon? Another anti-christ? Lucifer in disguise?" Castiel shakes his head to all of those.   
  
The boy gets up from the swing, trundles over--waddles, in the thick padding of his warm snowsuit, and Dean almost envies him, because his toes are freezing--to what must be his mother. Castiel's eyes follow him; Dean's do too. "A vessel," Castiel replies softly.   
  
Then he's gone, a whisper where he used to be, and all around an absence of sound that Dean never notices is there until its gone. He blinks, not really surprised, but confused, and turns his gaze back to the boy. Should he follow? Warn them, maybe, of the fact that the kid is apparently an angel meatsuit? It doesn't seem like Castiel to possess a child, seems a little dirty, maybe, more like what Zachariah would come up, and Castiel is here, apparently, for that purpose. And strange as it is to think, though its become less so in recent months, and he's reluctant to admit it, but he trusts the angel.   
  
There's no sound as he gets up from the bench and trudges through the snow back to the Impala. The sunlight glints off her hood, her rims, the frost clinging in silvery fletches to the tree branches and the sparkling snow. It really is beautiful here.   
  
Maybe they should stay.   


* * *

  
The next time Dean sees Castiel is on that Sunday afternoon, outside of a church on another clear, frigid day. He slows the Impala as he turns the corner, squinting against the sun threatening to turn his snow-blind at the sight in front of him.   
  
It's Castiel all right, trenchcoat and mussed hair and snow-covered shoulders and all, kneeling in the snow. He's got one hand on his knee, and the other on the shoulder of a small child, and Dean recognizes him as the boy from the playground. Sam leans over from the passenger seat, looking at the sight as well.   
  
"You know--"  
  
"Not a clue." Castiel is acting strangely, and Dean's not sure how to feel about the sudden obsession with small children, so he pulls over and gets out of the car. His breath clouds into the air and his nostrils decide to contract to half their usual size, and he sticks his hands in his jeans pockets almost immediately against the cold. He's halfway across the street when he sees the child nod, sees Castiel stand--actually brush the snow from his knee, which is funny to him for some reason--and muss the kid's hair. The child looks up at him for a second, flashes a smile, and runs through the churchyard to where the rest of the Sunday school is playing. Castiel turns and makes a beeline for Dean, meeting him just at the curb and walking past. Snows dusts from his shoulders, and he doesn't make eye contact, just heads for the car without a word.   
  
Dean turns on his heel, starts striding after him. "The hell is going on, Cas?!" he exclaims in an undertone, reaching the door at the same time as Castiel and shoving it closed with one hand. Cas looks at him then, surprise in his eyes. "What the hell is with you and that kid? What's so important that you can't tell us, but you have to stay here til--" his eyes shoot across the street to the church doors opening and spilling its congregation into the street. "Til friggin' Christmas?" He lowers his voice, but not his gaze, and stares straight as Castiel, refusing to back down.   
  
Castiel looks back. Blinks slowly. Then he's inside the car, and Dean pounds a fist against the frame in frustration. He shakes a finger at the angel from outside--Castiel steadfastly ignores him--and huffs his way around the front to the driver's door. There's slamming, and cursing, and the squeal of tires against fresh packed, icy snow, and the Impala drives away.   
  
He cranks the music, blaring some AC/DC out of the speakers because he doesn't really know what's going on right now and music is easier than words. Sam glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing. He understands. He just rests his elbow on the door and leans his head against the glass, watching the winter world go by. Castiel, however, leans forward from his place in the back and stretches out his hand.   
  
Dean smacks it away. "Driver picks the music," he snarls, because this is something he knows how to be angry about. Castiel just shakes his head--gives him a reproachful glare in the rear-view mirror which makes Dean feel like he's just been scolded, and that sucks--and continues to the dial, tuning the radio to some frequency or other. Dean's rock is cut off and replaced by something easy, light rock, with a operatic sounding tenor crooning out some lyrics to a bunch of saxophones and snares. It takes him a minute to recognize the tune.   
  
His forthcoming ranting and railing kinda dies away as the off-beat syncopated rhythm of a jazz version of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen fills the Impala. He chances a look in the rear-view mirror. Cas is sitting back in his seat, hands folded in his lap and eyes closed, mouthing along with the lyrics. So intent, so focused, and looking so completely moved by the music that Dean can't quite bring himself to change the station.   
  
He forgets to even bother Cas to tell him what the hell is going on with the kid.   
  
Ten minutes later, he's fighting to keep tears out of his eyes as Mary, Did you Know starts to play, and memories of his mom and dad and happy, easy Christmases overtake him. Sam is steadfastly staring out the window, and Dean's grateful for that, because dammit, this song always gets to him. Cas' eyes are open and staring at him through the mirror, and he doesn't look, because he's sure as hell no Messiah.   
  
Twenty minutes after that, and the brothers are singing tremulously along to The First Noel, under their breaths and a little pitchy, and Castiel has streaks of wetness down his cheeks, because he knows there hasn't been a Christmas for the Winchesters--a real Christmas, that is--in more years than he cares to count.   


* * *

  
It's Christmas Eve, and there's snow falling again--thick, heavy flakes that land softly and stick to everything and make you want to fall back and make angels in the snow. Dean doesn't of course, because he's got some decorum and a sense of pride and all, but Sam and Castiel both saw the angel in back of the motel that neither of them put there. He can't help it though. Since the day in the Impala with the Christmas carols on the radio, his heart is lighter. He's more at peace. The world is beautiful, and he's in it, and goddam but if he isn't going to save it.   
  
And its Christmas, and there's a sad little Charlie Brown christmas tree in the hotel room with a scraggly looking pile of presents underneath it and lights cobbled together MacGuyver style from thrift shops and garbage bins hanging over the room. And he's walking down a street with sparkling garland decorating the street lights and houses lit up everywhere, and for just one brief week, his world's been at peace. And he's cool with that.   
  
He sees the church ahead, the stained glass window over the doors lit from the inside, full of candlelight. He glances at Sammy, who looks back, and together make their way through the throngs of well-wishers to the front doors, stepping over the threshold and into the church. The pews are packed full of people, festive wear and happy murmurs echoing through the building, and together, as one unit, they move to a pew near the middle of the right hand side. Dean cranes his neck, searching for the familiar tan trenchcoat, but Castiel is nowhere to be seen.   
  
Sam checks his watch. "We're late," he mutters out of the side of his mouth, reaching forward and pulling a hymnal out of the back of the pew in front of them. "Where's Cas?"  
  
Dean shrugs, grabbing a thick, heavy book of his own. "He just said to be here about, oh, five minutes ago. Maybe he got bored?" Then the crowd hushes, the lights in the church dim, and a small group of choir children file out onto the stage.   
  
The organ blares into life, a piano, a smattering of strings from those members of the congregation who can play, swelling into the first major chords of Hark, the Herald Angels Sing. Dean scans their faces, and spots the small boy Castiel was so fascinated with earlier. He's got a bright smile on his face, an eagerness in his eyes and an excess of energy that only the young can have, shifting back and forth on his feet as he sings his little heart out. The people around them join in the song, and Dean and Sam do to, tentatively. An older woman sitting next to them nods appreciatively to their added baritone, and, emboldened, they sing louder.   
  
The carols go on and on, minutes or hours. Voices raised together in celebration, in worship, in happiness just because its friggin' Christmas. Dean can't help but feel pulled along by it. A small part of him wonders where Castiel is, wishes he were here. Castiel, who's cut off from heaven. It's probably nothing close, but to Dean's human ears, it sounds a lot like a heavenly host.   
  
Joy to the World ends on a bursting, exuberant note, the chords progressing through the keys as the undertones build and from somewhere, a drum roll sounds. Dean catches sight of a coat tail fluttering past just behind the rectory, cranes his neck to see if its Castiel, but Sam grips his arm suddenly. The crowd falls still, silent, as the young boy, Castiel's boy, steps forward into a spotlight. The light flashes, brighter than anything, brighter than the sun, and the crowd has to cover their eyes and blink for a moment to clear away the afterimage. Then it resolves itself, gilding the ends of the boy's blonde hair, brightening his eyes, shining with a golden light on the shoulders of his white choir gown.   
  
 _"God rest ye merry, gentlemen,  
Let nothing you dismay,  
Remember Christ, our Saviour,  
Was born on Christmas Day,  
To save us all from Satan's pow'r  
When we were gone astray..."_  
  
Each tiny, lingering note trembles in the air, utter purity resonating through the sanctuary. His tone is pitch perfect, beautiful and innocent yet so wise, his words, his eyes, beyond their possible six or seven years. He sings slowly, softly at first; his voice swells and warbles like a songbird, and he gives a hesitant smile to his mother, her hands clasped over his heart and a tearful, blissful smile on her face in the front row. The last note hangs on the air, unresolved; then the lights, the music, the voices of the choir and the congregation swell into something that Dean can only think of as ethereal.  
  
 _"Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,_  
 _Oh tidings of comfort and joy."_  
  
Then the lights fade, until the church is lit only by flickering candles, and there is a still silence for just a moment. Dean closes his eyes, and suddenly knows that there is a sound in the air that he can't hear, but that he'll miss when it's gone. Castiel stands beside him, head held high, and something like peace again in his eyes.   
  
"Thank you for coming."  


* * *

  
"So, the kid--?"  
  
"He was a vessel for me, yes. I took him with his and his mother's consent." Castiel has his hands wrapped around a cup of hot chocolate--some powered crap in the hospitality basket in the room, nothing like the real stuff, but its close enough. There's paper scattered here and there on the floor, a stack of skin mags shoved under a bedskirt (tradition, for tradition's sake, Dean thinks with a laugh), trinkets and baubles stowed here and there. The Christmas tree's lost most of its needles by now, looking sad and pathetic in the corner but trying its best to be cheery. And that doesn't depress Dean, for some reason; it gives him hope.   
  
"But why?" Sam asks from the other side of the room, leaning on his elbows on the small table. "I mean, what was the point of it?"  
  
Castiel thinks a moment, staring into his cooling cocoa. "It is a tradition," he says finally, his voice low, soft. The gentleness--the tenderness there--surprises Dean. "Since the first Christmas, when the host brought the news of the Christ's birth to the shepherds. We have always sung for you at Christmas." He looks up, meeting Dean's eyes, and its like Sam doesn't even exist. "The songs you hear, that bring tears to your eyes; the beauty that people comment on in a child's voice as they sing Silent Night; the peace that Christmas, the message and the music of Christmas brings; these are, and always have been, our gift to you."   
  
"So...children?" Dean's not quite getting it, though he thinks he sees where this is going. Castiel just nods, again.   
  
"They are the only ones with voices pure enough to let some of our own shine through," he says quietly. "Our true voices--well, you've heard them, or at least a little. Humans can no longer stand the sound of our speech, nor our song. And the voices of adults cannot resonate with our true voices. But in children--in the right child, the one whose voice and soul resonates with our own--through them we can deliver our gift. It is an honor and a blessing for families to have their child chosen to sing with the angels."   
  
Dean's not really sure what to say to that; he just looks at the stack of random crap he and Sam threw together in the department store in answer to the question, " _What the hell do you get an angel for Christmas?_ " and feels like it is nowhere near enough. Nothing comparable to the gift he and Sammy have just received. He closes his eyes, briefly, and the image of Castiel in the backseat of his car practicing, rehearsing, for the act he's just performed swims into his vision. In his mind's eye, the voice that comes from those muted lips is that of the boy standing at the front of the church, tinged with just a little of perfect, awesome beauty.   
  
There's a little bit of someone else in there, too, and that overwhelms him just a bit. He opens his eyes and pushes himself off the bed, grabbing his jacket from beside him and pulling it on, heading out the door. "Be right back," he grunts at Sam, who just nods and waves him out, though his eyes follow in curiousity as the door slams shut. It gets even curiouser when Castiel abandons his cocoa and follows him out the door.  
  
With a sigh, he gets out of his chair and starts picking up the shreds of wrapping paper.   


* * *

  
"Dean."  
  
Dean turns, and its just a flashback. He knows the fear and the sadness in his eyes, sees the pity that is reflected in Castiel's, but this time its so much more pronounced. The angel's become more readable, more human, and yet more other, and Dean's not sure how he's supposed to feel about that fact.   
  
"You did something else," he states roughly, swallowing hard. "It wasn't just you, wasn't just your angel voice resonating, or whatever. It was you, and that kid, and--" he chokes on the words, his eyes casting up at the sky in an attempt to force back the tears. Castiel takes a step forward.   
  
"Yes," he answers simply. Dean looks back down at him, stares at him, tears streaking his cheeks and not even caring that they're freezing there.   
  
"How?" It's barely a whisper, muffled by the falling snow, but Castiel hears him regardless.   
  
"Our pure voice comes from Heaven," he says slowly, moving forward until he stands shoulder to shoulder with Dean. "There can be many children that resonate with us, but there are few who are such a perfect match as to send reverberations all the way back to Heaven. Through most, you can hear the angels; through these few, you can hear the voices in Heaven itself. I spent those weeks searching for the perfect child, so that when Christmas came and it was time to let my voice be heard, you would hear the voices in Heaven, too."   
  
"Mom...Oh  _god_...that was her? That was her, singing, with you, and the kid?" Castiel nods, turns, facing Dean squarely eye to eye.   
  
"My gift to humanity is my song," he says softly, his hands resting lightly on Dean's shoulders, brushing off the snow that's fallen there. He stares, eyes searching Dean's tearful, emotional face; one hand moves to brush the snow from Dean's hair. "My gift to you, Dean Winchester, was hers."  
  
There's another memory in his mind, now, of a fierce face, loyal and protective and strong, looking him in the eye and seeing through to his soul. ' _I did it, all of it, for you_ ,' the memory says, and before he knows exactly what he's doing, he's kissing Castiel, kissing him in the cold and the snow and the dark, kissing him as the clock turns to Christmas Day. He kisses him for what seems like forever, and can feel Castiel tense, but the angel doesn't pull away.   
  
Finally, though, he does, and he rests his forehead against the angel's, grateful for the hands steadying his shoulders, his eyes closes and tears freezing them that way. "Sing to me," he whispers, and Castiel reaches his human arms around Dean's back, holds him tightly to his chest, and brings his lips close to Dean's ear. He sets them to rocking, back and forth in the snow, his hand tracing patterns over the cold leather jacket, and lets his true voice free just a little. Lets it resonate in the ears of a man still a child, a child who resonates with him perfectly in a way no one else ever could, or ever will; lets him hear the voices of Heaven, and his mother, and a little of his earthly human voice that's become to Dean so vital, and sings softly to him;  
  
 _Silent night,  
Holy night..."_


End file.
